This is no longer the house I grew up in. The loss of my mother is more evident than ever, cementing the awareness of how one person's impact can be as much the foundation of a home. like concrete itself. It's been two years since our lives changed forever. My father recently remarried and is trying to move forward after losing his wife of almost thirty-eight years to terminal brain cancer. Since my mother's death and my father's subsequent remarriage, our family home has lost its comfortable home atmosphere; in its place now lies a reflective sadness, an impersonal emptiness and a surreal urgency. The living room and dining room are now tidy and impersonal. Gone is the familiar clutter of children's books and educational materials. Half-finished crosswords and other reading materials are no longer piled up next to his chair in the living room. The chair isn't even there anymore. He had traveled with Mom to hospice care after a stroke left her unable to walk. Another major difference is the remodeling activity. Ever since my parents bought this house when I was four, they had renovation plans. At some point, everyday life and complacency always got in the way. Lately, almost as if in defiance of the past, my father's current attitude: "do it now, there may be no tomorrow" had taken over. He is currently working on the master bedroom upstairs. My parents had always wanted to create a large master bedroom from two adjacent bedrooms upstairs, but that always seemed to take a back seat to more pressing solutions or budgetary needs. The two additional bedrooms upstairs became one, finally getting closer to completion. The smell of fresh paint brings me a sad nostalgia. Why is... middle of paper ... like my family, my childhood... my mother. As time passes, I know I will have to accept that what once was, will never be again. Maybe things would be easier if my father and his second wife moved to another house, but that's not my decision to make. Change is a part of life and while it is sometimes wonderful, sometimes it is a painful journey in which we feel alone, even abandoned. My home, the place I grew up, was not so much the walls themselves, but the person who created the security I felt through unconditional love. This is what a house is; home is an irreplaceable, non-judgmental love that can always see your best even when you are at your worst. Those of us who have had this kind of home should feel lucky. I didn't realize how lucky I was until I found myself in his absence. I know I do now, in more ways than ever.